Inopportune Moments
by M. Prime
Summary: For a year she'd been running from broken promises and dark horizons - that was not the life she wanted with Jack Sparrow, nor was it the life she chose. However, fate has a nasty little way of finding us in inopportune moments and circumstances that are less than ideal. As such was one of those moments. [Oneshot].


**Author's Note:** Oi there! Greetings, one and all - thanks for clicking on this ditty, and I am glad you've decide to join me. Just a little about this piece - it is, at the moment, a oneshot. I wanted to experiment a little with an idea I had rolling around the back of my brain. Orginally it was going to be a Jack Sparrow spinoff, but it ended up being in the perspective of a love interest. It's set after _On Stranger Tides,_ a few years out. Not really a specific range, but before _Dead Men Tell No Tales._

Unless there is a **_screaming demand_ **for me to pursue this futher, it will remain a oneshot. I liked the idea and ran with it and played around, so it is what it is. It kind of deals with Jack's trouble of commitment between humanity and the sea, but I won't tell you much more than that. I want you to read for yourselves and tell me what you think. And, since I am new to the genre, I am experimenting with Jack, so please let me know in a quick little review if he feels right - at this point I'm honestly not even sure, because it's 2AM and I am on a severe caffeine crash.

Thanks, all, and enjoy!

* * *

The overall tone of the tavern could have been described as hellish by any outside passerby. To the ordinary patrons, however, it felt just like home; complete with the swaying chandelier and dripping wax all the way down to the salty, rotting wooden floors. Combined with the rowdy noise – a mixture of men carousing the female bobbles dangling over the second-level railing and a lively game of dice – it was really no different than any other given night of existence, perhaps the single pair of weathered eyes observing it all from the back.

A frayed waistcoat and faded breeches did little to mask the physique of a woman, but paired with a weather-cracked tricorn hat and long sea boots, it would be difficult to identify the sulking figure as anything other than a man – especially as a drunken man. Thankfully, most of the sailors and riffraff around the tavern were well beyond inebriated; in fact, it would be generous to say that were not slobbering dogs. Pulling at the collar of the waistcoat to hide the braided brunette curl of her hair, the onlooker slumped further down in her seat, her other hand lithely wrapping around her empty stein as she observed the game of dice not ten feet from her left.

She had to contain a smile as the opponent, currently playing against what she ascertained to be a seasoned player, slammed a balled fist on the table top in a rageful temper, rattling the wares and spilling steins and other drinking ware across the table. Good rum, whiskey, and a myriad of other drinks sloshed across the table and onto the floor, taking with it all hopes of a forgotten round. The opponent flew to his feet, threw back a fist, and reached across the bar for the seasoned expert, but not before two of his mates intervened and threw the man backward from the table.

He stumbled a few paces before ultimately colliding with the wall, slumping forward in a heap of unconscious stupor. This gave the scene of the place pause, only a moment, before the screeching laugh of a tavern maid overhead threw the room back into hysterics. The brunette onlooker just tapped her foot against the floor, shaking her head before lifting the empty stein to drain whatever remainder of rum may have been left behind.

When there was nothing, she pulled the stein back and peeked into it, frowning at the ware as if it could make sense of her reaction. Her head was already light, and her belly was warm, but it didn't matter – anything to drown out the memories, and the voices, that lapped through her mind like swirling water was a pursuit of happiness she was more than willing to oblige. However, happiness eluded her this night as she dropped the stein to her lap and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, lifting a hand to massage her aching temple. She looked back to the table ware and heaved a sigh, before hauling herself up from the chair and making sure to add a less-than-believable drunken swagger to her posture. She cast a look upward, where a pair of scantily-clad maids teased a group of groveling hogs at the railing, and she snorted in disgust.

She lifted the stein again and examined it with a wrinkled brow. "Why is the rum _always_ gone?" She mumbled, "At every unopporunate moment, the rum is always gone," at the conclusion of her thought, she twisted her mouth and shook her head, "Unopportune? Inopportune," she waved off the confusion and rolled her eyes again, waltzing her way back to the bar, "To bloody hell with it and all of this," was her final garble, before she pulled the brim of her hat down low over her eyes.

Slamming the stein back on the counter, she smacked her palm against the smooth wood and grabbed the tender's attention. He nodded at her, approached, and slapped a patched and filthy rag over his shoulder before nodding to the empty ware. Setting his jaw, he gestured with a hand to her, "What's it this time, sailor?" He questioned, his accent obviously British, without any trace of skullduggery to add, "Rum, whiskey?"

She snapped her eyes up at him from beneath the brim of her lowered hat. The corner of her mouth lifted and she shook her head, "What else is there besides rum?" She chuckled, making sure to add a growling rasp from her gut to her words, "I don't think there has ever existed any other such thing as grand and glorious," she slid the stein towards him with a flick of her hand, "Now, fill it up, and you might as well leave the entire bottle right here on this counter." She dropped the silver onto the table with a clatter just as he reached beneath the counter, "because I've just bought you out, good sir."

He rolled his eyes, smacked the bottle down in front of her, and left to tend to the other end of his bar. Satisfied, she plucked the bottle and stein from the counter and slung the neck between her fingers, only to come about and stop to consider the scene unfolding across the tavern floor. The opponent had roused from his unconscious stupor, only to have provoked an argument that was acclimating to blows. The two groups, the opponent's and the seasoned expert's, were in each other's craw, slobbering and screaming and cursing everything under God's open sky. The noise was unbearable between them and echoing off the now silent waves of onlookers across the tavern.

It was giving her a terrible headache, and she had no desire to listen to squabbles. Throwing back a drink of rum, she marched towards the argument and slammed her bottle on the table with a _clank!_ This silenced both parties, who staggered to a halt to observe the "man" who had intruded on their affair. From beneath the brim of her hat, she sneered at them, and growled out a dangerously low and quiet threat.

"Settle this like men or don't settle it at all," she challenged them, "and do it outside before I blast you to hell and back for the trouble." There was a chilled pause as the room fell deathly quiet, as if sound itself had paralyzed, until she grabbed the bottle of rum by its neck and turned on her heel. She tossed over her shoulder a very quick addition, "Unless, of course, you've already met the devil and he spat you back out for yer ugliness."

The room burst out into hysterics, this time the laughter ringing loud and drew at the obvious insult to both parties. The women on the railing above were practically rolling as men across the floor threw out their mixtures of "Ayes!" and confirming jowls. Someone called for more rum, as the tender scrambled to keep up with the sudden demand as her insult had roused the need for drink.

She approached her vacated spot again, and plopped back down to finish her stein and make a start on the bottle. As the weight removed from her legs and she slumped back into her chair, she recalled the history of the remark she'd used, and she couldn't suppress a smile. Looking down into the stein, she heaved a sigh, and closed her eyes – briefly, for a moment, she could see the horizon; stricken with the powerful gold of a promising sunrise, the sky a light purple with hues of orange and pink, as the crystalline sea stretched far beyond and wide. She could almost – _almost –_ hear the familiar snap of sails, and briefly, she could've sworn she felt the atmosphere bristle with that charismatic and flamboyant enthusiasm that she had so come to miss.

It wasn't a second later that two meaty hands clamped down onto her arms and hauled her up out of the seat. Her eyes snapped open, and she dropped both the stein and the bottle of rum, which simultaneously crashed onto the floor and shattered, the precious beverage flowing freely across the floor, now. Hefted into the air, only to slam back to the floor on her feet, she was flung about to stand face-to-face with the now slobbering opponent, who was glaring down at her from a staggering six feet tall.

The room roared with drunken laughter and entertainment, as myriad calls of "Beat 'im to a bloody pulp!" and "Shoot 'im dead!" and "Skin 'im alive!" rang out to her ears from all around. She was keenly aware, as she swayed to a balance, that there had gathered a circle of patrons between her and the slobbering opponent. And, when she checked over her shoulder, she realized the seasoned dice player had been the one to rouse her from her memory. Now smack-dab in the middle of something she was in no position to be smack-dab in, her mind began to reel for a route of escape.

Men were everywhere, and she was not sober enough to engage in open sword play. Also, she didn't have the burning desire to waste shot on these two idiots, and besides that, she doubted her aim was exactly as it should have been. In all reality, she had two options – engage these two dogs in hand-to-hand, or wit her way out the entire situation, which seemed preferable. However, she was more a woman of action than anything else, which was how she'd ended up on shore anyway, away from really the only thing that had kept her both sober _and_ sane these past five years.

She stood tall, squaring back her shoulders, and lifting her chin. Many times had she seen this done – negotiation called for confidence, optimism, quick intelligence, and charming wit to win over any speculative onlooker. Eloquence and grace sometimes were required, but not always – in a moment like this, she doubted a speech or an extensive vocabulary would do her any good. She needed to outsmart this pathetic pair of squabbling scabs, and she needed to do it before she got any drunker, or they got any angrier. What she needed was time to route her escape, while also managing to dig herself out of a grave.

The room was pounding with the cries and chants of spectators, and those blasted _wenches_ and their infernal cackling! Her heart was hammering now, and blood pumped through her ears like a ballast, as if relieving the rest of her body with adequate blood floor that was both necessary, and apparent. She had started to sweat, and her breathing was becoming ragged and uneven – it would be difficult to lower her voice and make these men believe she was a man. The ruse had been going on fairly decently, until this moment. _Me and my ever-loving, big mouth_ , were the only word that currently circled around her brain. The other thought that came to mind, however, was, _Where's Jack when you need him?_

Her mouth opened to protest, but not before there was a loud _bang!_ that came from the front of the tavern, followed by the whistle of wind and the blast of fresh air that she could feel from where she stood. Hers was not the first set of eyes to fleck over to the unfolding scene – first, it was her slobbering opponent who jerked his attention to the now-parting group of spectators. Even the women had stopped their raucous laughter. She blinked, and gave her attention fully to the parting sea of men, and once they'd parted, she could've sworn her eyes would fall straight out of her skull and roll across the floor.

She hitched a breath and clamped her jaw, cursing herself for thinking such thoughts that would conjur up imagines. She blinked again, ferociously, until she reached up to rub her eyes – certainly this was a dream, or the effects of rum. But, however, when the man behind her stepped forward and knocked shoulders with her roughly to approach the door, she was fully aware that this was anything _but_ a dream. And, as much as she wished it were a nightmare, it wasn't. If her breathing hadn't been ragged before, it certainly was a pitiful mess now, before her lungs were burning as if they'd been turned to sulfur as she dared a step forward for a better look.

There, standing in the tavern's fully open doorway, stood the man she'd been both pining to forget and struggling to remember, in the very exact flesh that was indeed Captain Jack Sparrow. She lifted a trembling hand to touch her lips, which were suddenly burning, and drew her hand back – for a moment she wondered if she'd uttered the words aloud and they'd thus conjured up the very man. But, however, the smirk on his face and effervescently proud swagger to his walk was enough to ensure that he'd arrived of his own free will, and had every intention of making his presence known. Which, ultimately, wasn't unusual – that was just Jack Sparrow, and everyone had squared with that, no matter how much they had tried to dampen his enthusiastic self-promotion.

He waltzed into the tavern, one foot in front of the other, and smacked a hand down on the tavern's bar countertop as if he owned the very floor. He surveyed the room with a curious and uncertain look on his face, as if pondering why everyone was both gathered in a rallied circle and now, effectively, staring at him. He started to strum his fingers along the bar as he walked the length of it, his eyes narrowing into a sneer as the other hand very slowly came to rest on the massive buckle of his baldric.

She couldn't help but stare, and was fully aware of her incoherence. She blinked again, before swallowing back an uneasy breath, before she staggered slightly and suddenly became the only moving figure in the sea of people. This snapped the newcomer's attention to her, and he stopped dead, hand now lifted off the bar. His eyes widened as their eyes connected, and she gulped back a hitched breath as she felt her throat clamp closed. She blinked once more, and quickly whirled on the heel of her boot to make a hasty retreat upstairs – anywhere away from the burning question she just _knew_ Jack Sparrow was going to ask.

Almost to the staircase, she was stopped short very suddenly when a thin figure that she'd recognized from the dice game slowly slid to a stop in front of her. She halted and stumbled backward, but not before the previously unconscious opponent came up behind her and grabbed her by the forearm. She snapped a glance over her shoulder and jerked her arm, as if for release, but found it no use – the man was twice her size, and his grip was like iron. He brought her around, and displayed her again before both the now surprised Jack Sparrow, and the enraged dice player.

Her mind was reeling as the man released her, rather roughly. She staggered and brushed off the arm of her waistcoat, before she lowered the brim of her heat over her eyes and glanced away from Sparrow, who was now looking at her with raised curiosity. However, his eyes shifted between her two offenders, before his chin lifted and he waved a hand in her general direction, to point a finger at her accusingly.

His nose wrinkled, objectively. "What be your name, lad?" He challenged her, "Somethin' about you is vaguely familiar, though I'm probably too drunk to know exactly what, so just give us yer name and ease my mind. Savvy?" Obviously, Jack couldn't distinguish that she was a woman – and, if Jack Sparrow couldn't spot a woman standing not ten feet from him, she had to applaud herself. When she didn't reply immediately, he sighed and waved his hand back and forth in aggravation, and approached her, which was the _last_ thing she needed.

As he came closer, she took a step back, daring a look up at him. He hadn't changed much in the time she'd been away from him – just a few odd things, like his clothing and his jewelry, but the look of Jack Sparrow, she was certain, would follow him to the grave – and, probably, back. The bandanna, beads, jewelry, dreadlocks, scars and scraggly facial hair all screamed memories back into her mind that she both relished, and regretted. She'd been happy to forget about Jack Sparrow, and the fact that she had fallen in love with him – and this certainly wasn't helping that happiness along.

She could still very clearly remember the first time she'd met Jack Sparrow, and she doubted that she would live to forget it. He had come to shore in Port Royal while she'd been teaching school, in search of both a ship and crew of men, when she'd had the unfortunate opportunity to exchange both words, and trouble, with him. He had disrupted her class, only to effectively place her between he and the redcoat garrison of the city, in an attempt to escape. From there, he'd somehow managed to tote her along, and she'd ended up square in the middle of trouble she'd had no desire to find. And, she'd been tossed into an adventure she would never forget; one that would change the tide of both her life, and that of Jack Sparrow's, too.

He stared down his nose at her, before righting his head and snapping a narrowed look at her that was both familiar, and rendering. She swallowed back an uneven breath, unsure of what to do. For a year she'd been trying to run away from him and his false promises, and she had to admit – she'd done a bloody good job of it, so far. She'd made a name for herself; commanding a small ship, with a few mates who trusted her despite her secret, and had made a small profit for herself. She had assumed a name, and had stayed out of legal trouble, for the most part – a few scrapes here and there had cost her some swordplay, but all in all, she'd done well. Playing the part of a man was easy compared to running away from her past and the broken promises and false hope.

Jack shifted his weight on his feet and cocked a brow at her. "Aye – somethin' is familiar about you, to be sure," he narrowed his gaze at her again, and the corner of his mouth lifted into that sly smirk that send her stomach plummeting to her ankles. She didn't dare breathe, or look up at him, now. "I'm just not yet sure what exactly about you rouses my interest, boy."

In a quick instant, he reached out and grabbed at her hat, sweeping it off of her head quickly. She reacted swiftly, pouncing after the hat, only to have him step back smoothly and effectively send her to the floor sprawling out at his feet. She hit the floor hard, her chin snapping against the wood and sending jagged bolts of pain up into her temples, before she groaned and lifted herself on her arms and dragged a look up at him, slowly.

The reaction she found was one of blatant shock, and approving surprise. Jack stood there with his hat, his eyes wide; body unmoving. He was cemented in place at the sight of her, as she slowly pushed herself up and staggered to her feet. Their eyes were locked, as if in combat, as they exchanged silent words. His look of "bloody hell, where have you been?" mixed with her, "what are you doing here?" spoke loudly enough between the two of them, that suddenly the room around them didn't matter.

His mouth fell open, quickly. "M-Mag- _Magnolia_?" He questioned, still stunned into disbelief, "Maggie? Mother of hope, what a surprise! What brings you to a place like this?" He gestured at her, brows raising judgmentally, before he looked at her again, "And dressed like that, of all things. This look, love – it really does no justice for you –"

He was stopped short when her eyes fluttered closed at his incessant babbling, and she stepped toward him, snatching her hat from his hand. Very suddenly, she was aware that the group of onlookers had pressed further into the twist of events, and was now as gawking and interested as Jack presently was. She fit her hat back on her head and whipped a stubbornly upset look at him, and threw her hands into the air in an exasperated expression.

She groaned outwardly and set her jaw. "I _was_ trying to stay away from _you_ , Jack Sparrow, but it seems that the very thought of you rouses the impossible!" There was snickering, and a mixture of assorted whispered and hushed remarks that reflected her frustration outward to the observers who were now, one step at time, closing in around the pair.

Jack seemed to notice, too, as it did a sweep of the situation. His brows widened in realization, before he grabbed her arm and jerked her to his side, leveling a furrowed and thoroughly confused look on his face. He gestured with a hand, before asking, "Is this whole affair of my doing, or..?"

She rolled her eyes, "On the contrary," her hand slowly drifted to her belt, where he sword carefully rubbed against her hip, until her fingers wrapped around the smooth hilt and pulled it from its sheath, "it seems that your bad luck isn't the only thing that rubs off, Jack," she lowered into a fighting stance and cocked a brow at the opponent, who was smirking down at her, "any ideas to save a girl's life, Captain Sparrow?"

He, too, drew his own blade, despite the fact that every ounce of his posture and body language was set against the idea of a physical fight. "Fresh out at the moment, dearie," Within moments, the circle of men had enclosed to the point where they were within blade's reach, and she had come back to back with Jack Sparrow, as she swallowed back a ragged breath.

He snorted out a laugh, "Now isn't that predictable," she rolled her eyes, "some things never do change, do they, Jack?"

His hearty laugh was both reassuring, and again, predictable. "So who's feathers did you manage to ruffle this time, love?" he nodded to the man now standing in front of him, "Ugly here," he jerked his head over his shoulder, and gestured with a hand to the man in front of her, "Or uglier over there?"

"Both," she retorted, quickly. She planted her feet solidly, and checked over her shoulder, only to find that Jack was slowly reaching for her hand behind his back; fingers brushing against her own.

He snorted, "You never did do things halfway, Magnolia," he said quietly over his shoulder. Then, after the crowd of men had pressed as closely as they dared, their eyes now filled with vengeance, hatred, lust, and greed, he added with a hushed rasp, "Do you trust me?"

She gulped back a ball of fire, and released a hesitant and slow exhale out of her nose. "When haven't I trusted you, Jack?" She muttered back, flicking the sword's tip up a few inches as the slobbering man before he dared a half step forward.

"Until recently? Never any time, if I recall properly," he nodded to the man before him, "I'd say that's close enough, mate – we're not that familiar, and I don't much appreciate the way you've gone about treating my lady, here, so, pardon us if we decide to sit this one out."

As if on cue, she slipped her hand into his, and in a burst of speed, he stepped right and jerked her along with him. The two men sprang into action a fraction of a second late, and collided with one another. Jack released her hand and expertly whirled around on his feet, snapping up his blade to the men who had started out to reach for him. This halted their advance fully, giving her just enough time to jerk her pistol up from the baldric and cock it back directly in another few faces.

"Now, let's be civilized about this," Jack started, cocking a brow. His tone was even and slow, as if talking to incoherent children. He began to sidestep, the circle of men moving as he did so, she not far behind him. Slowly, she was able to navigate in behind him, and again they were back to back, this time the two dice players whom she'd offended squaring off against the end of both her pistol, and her blade. "Everyone here was having a jolly good time going about their night, and I say we just forget about this entire fiasco and call it square. Me and the lady will bow out gracefully, and allow you all to continue on with your dignity."

This roused a quiet rumble of assorted chuckles, until the big man whom had been the better of the two dice players shook his head and pointed finger at her, chuckling throatily, "And if we don't like that idea?" He challenged.

Jack shrugged, and she cocked a brow at the man standing in front of her. She wagged the pistol in his face and snorted, "I'm not sure it's an optional agreement, mate," before she stepped forward and lifted her hand to ram the hilt of her sword in his face.

He howled in pain before collapsing, her not hesitating to crack him over the head with the grip of her pistol. The tavern populace sprang to life them, all lunging for the two intruders, and doing a fine job of stumbling over themselves as they did so. The women leaning over the railing were screaming, and the room was shaking with vibrations and ruckus. Chairs flew across the air, tables tumbled along the floor, and bottles and steins were sailing like cannon fodder across the room. Soon, what initially began as a fight with two pirates had become an all out brawl, as intentions were lost in the scuffle and things got physical.

Jack had managed his way to the bar, and reached behind it to pluck out a stained glass bottle of what appeared to be rum. The jovial look on his face was evidence of that enough, until the man he'd been retreating from lunged forward toward him. Jack ducked, and the man's chest collided with the bar's edge, effectively knocking the wind from him. The pirate captain didn't hesitate at all – he dropped his shoulder, and rammed into the man's knees, sending him falling backward and sprawling out on his back across the floor. Jack scrambled up to his feet, and kicked him in the ribs twice, and the man doubled over into the fetal position.

Sparrow popped tall, and she could see him searching for her. He hopped up onto the bar and began searching the crowd, her not paying much attention to his efforts as she was busy dodging blows and grabbing hands. Somewhere along the way, she'd dropped her sword, and there wasn't space enough to fire a shot, lest she get herself, or worse, Jack. So, she'd managed to just exchange blows, having stuffed the pistol into the front of her breeches.

Someone grabbed the back of her waistcoat and hauled her around, sending her off canter. He raised a fist and hesitated only a moment as her braid fell over her shoulder, as if cluing him into the fact, that, she was indeed, a woman. The look on face briefly flashed that of confusion, before she frowned at him and hollered a war cry, to ball up her fist and throw a solid punch to his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, and she shoved him away to splay out across the floor.

Another hand grabbed at her braid and she screamed, dropping to her knees as they yanked her down – _hard._ Grabbing for whomever had grabbed her by the hair, she didn't see the man come up in front of her. He was ready to throw a punch, but tripped over the first man who had hesitated – he corrected just enough to land a weaker form of the blow, but it snapped her head back and sent her reeling regardless.

Stars danced before her eyes, and pain spiked up into her skull and down her neck, flashing a black veil across her vision. She staggered on her feet as her head spun in an attempt to gain footing, but it was difficult – another man came at her from the right, and rammed what felt like an elbow down between her shoulders. Another set of hands pushed her forward, and she managed to catch herself on her knees, as whom she assumed was the same man grabbed at her braid again and tried to yank her to her feet. She cried out again, this time blood splattering across the floor form her split lip, as her head pulled back to stare up into the blurry face of one of the dice players whom had set this entire thin in motion.

Somewhere, she could hear Jack calling her name, but it was overpowered by the pounding ache in her face. "Time to say goodnight, poppet," the man in front of her snickered, drawing back a fist, "hold her steady, lads –"

Before he could even finish his thought, there was a loud _crash!_ before a wave of stinging liquid washed down over his head and rained down onto the floor, mixture with stained glass and the pungent smell of what could only be rum. The man swaggered from the impact, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell off to the side, unconscious yet again. The grip on her braid tightened as the men scrambled to regain control of the situation.

Jack was standing in front of her now, and snapped up a pistol to cock it back at the men's faces. They sobered up immediately, carefully watching the man before them. He smirked and sauntered forward, before he dipped and gave her a flip look. He smiled at her and lowered a hand to her waist, running a teasing finger from her hip to the center of her abdomen. His brow snapped up, and the corner of his mouth wrinkled in relished enjoyment.

"We will come back to this," he gestured between them with a quick hand, before he tugged the pistol from her breeches and popped it up to the men behind her. He gave them a serious look and gestured with it to the man's hold on her hair. "I suggest you release her immediately, at punishment of death."

They snickered, obviously disbelieving. Jack's brow went up, obviously offended by their lack of sobriety in the face of threat. He looked down at her for a moment, and she winced as the man tugged on her hair again, further pulling her head back. Now she had an excellent view of the ceiling, and the chandelier, which was shaking.

"You think I'm joking, mate?"

There wasn't time for a response. Jack cocked the pistol back so quickly that the two men didn't have time to breathe much less formulate a response. He pulled the trigger and the pistol cracked to life in an explosive shot, just above the first man's head. He dropped his hold on her hair so swiftly that it caught her off guard, and she fell backward onto the floor. Jack immediately seized the opportunity and stepped over her, now effectively putting himself between the two men, and her.

The tavern didn't seem effected by the shot; instead, it backed off of its clamor a bit, but did not entirely cease cause. There was still fist-fighting and name calling here and there, as well as the hollers and cries of injured men as scuffles either broke off, ended, of made their way outside. Most of the men were collecting themselves; rolling their shoulders to check for injuries or examining bruises and split lips. Many of them returned to their drinks, while a majority made their way either out the doors, or up the stairs to lick their wounds.

She pushed herself up on an elbow, still now entirely right with the world or ready for standing. Massaging her jaw slowly, she determined that it wasn't broken, and looked up at Jack, who made a sweeping arch with his unfired pistol. "Now look what you've made me do," he "tsked" them antagonistically, "that shot wasn't intended for you, mate."

They slowly began to back off, the scuffle now almost entirely dissipated. The bartender had come out with a pistol of his own, and was waving it through the air, dismissing the group of rowdy fighters entirely as they made their individual retreats. Jack's tone dropped an octave, into a growling hiss, as he dismissed the group himself. "Now bugger off, you lot of scabrous beasts."

With that, she and Jack Sparrow were forgotten, and he lowered his pistols entirely. He stuffed his own weapon back into its baldric, and looked down to her, worriedly. He crouched, put a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she sat farther up on her arm, and flipped the pistol in his hand to offer her the grip. He nodded at her. "This one's yours, love."

She nodded and took it from him, and it felt heavy in her hand, quickly. Jack looked around the room and spotted her sword, which she'd dropped, and gestured to the young man who was recovering from his bout with the floor. Whistling at him, he sneered at the boy, and barked loudly, "Bring me that, you pathetic carp," and the boy practically sprang forth from the earth to do his bidding. Within moments, Jack accepted it from him, and focused his attention fully back on her.

Her head was extremely heavy, and her vision was getting worse. Nothing appeared to be broken, at first inventory of her body, though her neck was hurting and her jaw was throbbing. She was certain it had swollen and that a bruise was already evident. She tried to sit up without bearing weight on her arm, but it was impossible. Blood rushed to her head and sent her swaying back.

Jack was there in an instant, however, and put a hand on her shoulder to steady her further. He looked concerned, and took her chin in a soft hold, to turn her face to look at him. He winced, and made a noise that further confirmed her hypothesis that her injuries did not look in the least dismissive. He took her by the elbow with one hand, and with the other, sheathed her sword.

Slowly, the pirate captain helped her to her feet. "Easy now, dearie," he warned her, "I don't think you're right for standing at the exact moment." Her feet felt like flopping fish, and she fell heavy against him, and Jack dipped to slip an arm under hers to take on most of her weight.

She snorted and brushed her braid off her shoulder to give him an expressly tired smile. "This is not exactly how I envisioned this moment," she rolled her eyes and winced as she tried to straighten, spiking pain thundering up her spine to resonate between her shoulders, "Bloody mother, that _hurts_."

He chuckled, and she could feel it rumbling through his chest. The buttons on his waistcoat sleeve brushed against her hip as he snaked an arm around her slowly, the other helping her arm over his shoulder and holding it in place. She knew exactly what he was going to say before he could say it. "And, pray tell, young missy – to what moment does this one not fully uphold? Or, rather, what type of moment were you envisioning to begin with?"

Shaking her head, she exhaled heavily as he carefully escorted her from the tavern, into the cool Caribbean night, where the air was crisp and clear and filled with memories of the sea. Just off to her left, she could see the harbor, and the ships swaying at dock and those anchored off shore, of which, if she had to guess, Jack's was among. She didn't answer him until they were well away from the tavern and almost to the dock, where he led her to a tied dinghy.

Jack helped her into the dinghy, albeit less than gracefully, and clamored back up the ladder to cast a look over his shoulder. By this time, her head was hazy, and she was having difficulty staying awake. The pain was dull and throbbing, and her eyes were heavy. Suddenly, she was very cold, and could hardly distinguish what Jack was telling her as his boots collided heavily with the dock overhead and he sauntered away in search of whom she assumed to be Gibbs and the rest of the crew who had come ashore.

He didn't return before she drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

She wasn't entirely sure if it had been days, or hours, since she'd fallen unconscious that miserable night after the brawl at the tavern. However, what she did know, was two things – first, that she was no longer on land, and two, that had she been giving a choice where to end up, it would've been anywhere but here.

The cabin was familiar, and filled with a scent that she had not forgotten, nor would soon forget. It was an odd mixture of spices; primarily cinnamon, tinged with the smell of rum, sea, and gunpowder. All very familiar smells that brought back both pleasant and unpleasant memories as she stirred from her unconscious state. She was welcome with light shining through the cabin's only window, as well as the familiar sounds of life and activity above head, on deck.

Fully roused from sleep, she contemplated her situation only briefly, before throwing off the blanket and swinging her legs over the side of the double bed. Her feet touched down on the slick wood of the weathered ship, and she found that she was still in her clothes – at least, in her shirt and breeches. Her boots, belt and baldric, waistcoat, and other effects were draped over the desk and chair in the far corner across the cabin; mingling with empty bottles of rum and what appeared to be navigational tools and books.

Her head was throbbing with a dull ache that was not as severe as she remembered, and she rubbed her jaw. Wincing as contact with her injury spiked a blast of pain into her temple; she got up and made her way carefully to the table, where she plucked up one of the empty bottles which mingled with the assortment of jewelry and accessories splayed across the desk. Though difficult, she could make out darker discoloration on her chin, and ascertained that it was a bruise and nothing more. She set and unset her jaw a few times just to make sure it was not broken, before she stretched her arms overhead and gasped in pain.

The sound of boots on deck above her head was erratic, which was not uncommon aboard a ship. She heard someone shouting orders – someone that wasn't Sparrow or Gibbs, but she shrugged it off. She assumed that Jack was at the helm overseeing the course, while Gibbs was watching over other duties of the vessel. She'd sailed many times with Jack Sparrow and his crew, and she hadn't known their ways to vary all that much – Jack ran a very tight-knit and orderly crew, and was always on top of things. Being a victim of mutiny and a child of chaos tended to change ones ideals, she imagined, though she gave Jack credit for his efforts. Despite his bumbling behavior and his effervescence, he was a good pirate, and a good captain.

Looking down at her appearance, she lifted the collar of her shirt and smelled it – her nose wrinkled, before she shrugged. While she didn't smell anything close to a bed of roses, her stench wasn't as awful as she imagined. She quickly dressed; slipping into her waistcoat and belting on her effects, once she had her boots on, she ventured out of the cabin, and up on deck.

The sun cast a bright reflection against the ocean's surface, though it was not unwelcome. She shielded her eyes and immediately checked the sails overhead – they were filled and spread eagle, and she could see why, for the wind swept her hair off her shoulder, and snapped her waistcoat back. Her attention was then drawn to the helm, where she did indeed find Jack Sparrow focusing on his compass with a lazy, one-handed grip on the ship's massive wheel.

She made for the helm, making her way across deck and passing by the crew of assorted men. Jack's motley crew paused their work as she passed by; most gawking, others genuinely pleased to see her. Many of the faces she didn't immediately recognize after almost a full year away from the _Black Pearl._ However, the intricacies and atmosphere of the ship was not foreign, and she fell into the mold of old habits quickly. It was if she could almost feel the ship welcoming her back as she climbed the steps to the helm, having now grabbed the attention of Gibbs, who smiled at her genuinely.

He dipped his head to her. "Miss Dawson," he extended a hand to clap on her shoulder, holding out the other to her, "it's good to finally see ye again, miss. It's been a might too long." With that, she smiled back at him and shook his hand, nodding her confirmation. She could feel Jack staring at her, but didn't make a show of seeming to notice. She nodded her understanding.

"It has, Master Gibbs – too long indeed. You look well." He released her hand, and nodded to Jack, whom was focused on the horizon again, as if he hadn't been fully aware of her presence. Gibbs raised his brows and gestured with his head for her to approach. She rolled her eyes, turned on her heel, and did so.

She stood across the helm from him, reaching up to place a hand through one of the spokes. The wind picked up again, and tossed a handful of her brunette curls across her face, which she brushed aside with a finger. Waiting a few moments for Jack to acknowledge her presence, when he finally did nothing to recognize her on deck, she had to purse her lips together to keep from chuckling.

"Good morning, Jack," she said quietly, checking slightly over her shoulder to find that Gibbs had edged a bit closer to their conversation, but kept a focused and disciplined look on his face, as if the suspense of their reunion _wasn't_ eating him alive. She had to shake her head, and looked back to Jack, only to find him now standing fully to face her, with a wrinkled look on his face. Her brow wrinkled likewise, and she frowned at him. When he said nothing, she tacked on, "Well, are you going to say something, or has the miraculous happened and you're suddenly speechless?"

This triggered an expressionistic response from him, to where the corner of his mouth twitched and he smiled at her, and looked down to his feet before shaking his head. "It isn't that there are no words to be said, love – it's that there are far too many say at once, which presents quite the challenge in a moment like this one." He turned to face the horizon, and lifted his chin, "For instance, I could go about asking something along the lines of where exactly you have been for the last year, or just why precisely you decided to leave, but I'm afraid that's a question I'm not entirely sure I want answered."

At this, her jaw clamped closed. She imagined that Jack would be upset at her gallivanting off a year ago, but of all the things to say, _those_ where the words he decided to use? She was fairly certain Jack had at least an idea of the reasoning behind her departure, but she doubted she'd ever get him to say otherwise – her leaving had his doing, and a part of him, she was sure, understood that. His broken promises and empty platitudes had fallen on deaf ears a year ago, which had resulted in her leaving in the middle of the night and not returning.

A year ago she'd found herself at a crossroad, and she fully understood that she was right back where she had started, and she feared that she'd spent a year outrunning her past in a circle, only end up at the beginning again. Anger pitted itself in her stomach, right beside hurt, and the sour taste of disappointment and grief swallowed her chest fully like a wet blanket. Heat had begun to trace a trail up her spine, but finally dissipated as she released a sigh, and turned to face the horizon, one hand still on the helm. She slowly tipped it towards him, and looked down to her booted feet.

She released a quiet breath, and bit her lower lip before replying quietly, "You promised, Jack," she looked up against the horizon, and out of her peripheral vision, she could see that her statement had triggered a response, "you promised that once we had found the Fountain, that you would rid yourself of that life and _sail_." She turned from the helm and stepped away, towards the railing, and gripped it with white knuckles. "I can't live my life chasing after darkness, Jack. I told you that then, and I am telling you now – if this is the life you choose, then it's the life _you_ will lead."

After a long pause, she added, "My horizon is out there, Jack," she looked down at her clothing and pulled at her shirt, before turning to face him, "this," she gestured to herself, "this is my horizon. This is who I am." She extended her arms out, and gave him a pointed look, "This is who _we_ are," she gestured between them with a waving hand. "That's all I ever wanted."

He had turned to face her again, staring at her with a narrowed look of contemplation. While she knew Jack to be a calculating, charismatic, unique individual, she also understood that Jack had a very serious part of him that shone through when necessary. It wasn't a part of him that many people saw – it was reserved for those he trusted the most, and those whom he knew he could be serious with; those who would take him seriously, despite his less-than-serious demeanor.

Jack released the helm and approached her, stopping directly in front of her to grip the giant wheel again in a firm, experienced hand. He locked gazes with her, again expressing more than just words, which he was particularly good it. It was disarming to know that he knew her better than most people, and that he could say everything without needing to breathe a word – but, while it was disarming, it was also reassuring. Suddenly, she felt miniscule and swallowed back a dry breath, realizing that her mouth was clamped closed. While she couldn't tell if he was bluffing with his behavior, she knew fully that she was blushing, and also that she couldn't hide it from him – especially from him.

He shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting again in disbelieving smirk. He looked off for a moment, before he scrubbed his face with a hand and smoothed his mustache with two fingers, out of nervous habit. Crossing his feet at the ankles, he leveled a serious look at her, and chuckled. He shrugged a shoulder, and releasing the helm, he stepped into her personal bubble and looked down at her.

"This," he gestured between them, "was all I ever wanted, darling. I realized it was all I ever wanted after I found the _Pearl_ and returned you home to Port Royal, and believe me, darling – I was never _searching_ for trouble. I just never ran away from it." His gaze dropped from her eyes, and he reached for one of brunette curls flowing over shoulders, to twirl it slowly around his finger. "Fate has a nasty little way of finding us in inopportune moments and circumstances that are less than ideal. I like to think of them as…tests, if you will. Tests to pass, or to fail. And, considering that so far we're both alive and well, I think we've done a damnably well good job of it thus far."

She blinked, and swallowed thickly again, before he released her hair from his finger. Carefully, his eyes searched her own, until his brow wrinkled ever so slightly, and his head canted to the side in consideration before he added somberly, "I've been looking at the horizon my entire life, darling, and have never been able to put my finger on it. That is because it has been right in front of me – here with you. _You_ , love, are my horizon." He brushed her hair over her shoulder, and raised a brow knowingly. "Savvy?"

The corner of her mouth lifted into a light grin, and she twisted her lips slightly and cocked a brow at him. He was slightly taken aback at her reaction, until she rolled her eyes and reached for the front of his belt, where she knew he kept his compass habitually. Lifting it in her palm, she raised a knowing brow and tapped it with her fingernail, gesturing for him to take the device from her palm.

"Prove it," she said smartly, "prove it, and I will say I was wrong."

His brows shot up so quickly that she was certain they would rocket off his face. "Prepare to eat crow, as they say, darling," he saluted her teasingly, and winked. When he snatched the compass, she took a step back as he turned to face the horizon fully, and flipped open the device. Resting a hand on the helm of the ship, he looked down at the device, and then at her from the corner of his eye, before he lifted his chin superiorly.

After a few moments of silence, he waved her forward with a hand and pointed at the compass with a dramatic hand. She approached, and glanced over his shoulder to the device – and, most certainly enough, the compass was pointed directly south, which was exactly where she was standing. Brow furrowing, she snatched the compass from him, and shook her head.

"This thing had better be serious," she chastised him, "otherwise I'm keelhauling you all the way back to Tortuga," she grumbled, and held the device steady in her own palm. After a few moments of silence, the compass began to focus, and certainly enough, it pointed due west, where Jack was just slightly standing off to the side, arm rested fully on the helm of the vessel.

"When have I ever given you opportunity to doubt me?" He pressed a hand to his chest and arched a brow at her, before gesturing with a wave for her to return the compass. "Now, the compass, if you please – and, I believe you have some fine statement you would like to convey? I believe they are something along the lines of 'wrong', which then allow me to say a hearty and greatly anticipated, ' I told you so'."

She gave him a lopsided smile, before she slapped the compass closed and crossed to him in two strides. Extending the compass back to him, he swiped it from her smoothly and offered her a cool look, one that was knowing and expectant. She leveled a flat look at him, and pursed her lips together in contemplation, before looking off to the side and reaching up to tip his hat back, slightly.

Smiling at him, she stepped closer, and grabbed the front of his waistcoat with one hand; the other, she wrapped her fingers around the strap of his belt and wrinkled her nose, "I think I can do far better than words, Captain Sparrow," she rose on her toes and dusted her lips against his stubbled jaw, and whispered into his ears, "that is, unless, you would prefer words. It isn't that there are no words to be said, love – it's that there are far too many say at once," she mimicked him softly, and giggled lightly, "But, perhaps, maybe you would like to know what humility tastes like?"

He smirked at her, offering her a teasing half smile, before he gave her a lidded look and staggered backward, slightly. His grip on the helm dropped. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm and turned, shuffling her a few steps backward to rest her back against the massive helm. With a tentative hand, he traced her jaw with a finger, and his gaze fell to her lips before he nodded his understanding, ever so carefully.

All he managed was a quiet, "I do want to know what it tastes like," before that was the end of it. He kissed her first, tentatively, as if waiting for her to concede, until finally she relinquished her pride and succumbed fully to humility.

After a year away, it felt marvelous to be where she belonged – right here, with the _Pearl_ , with Jack. For a moment, she forgot why she had left, and she forgot whatever it was that had driven her to the insatiable fear of rejection. He felt so right, and perfect – and, as his mouth moved against her own, and her body fell into the mold of his, she knew without a doubt that this is what she was, and where she belonged. And, that was a promise she knew could never be broken.


End file.
